


but i can't find the words i want

by mayerwien



Category: Mr. Peabody & Sherman (2014)
Genre: Family, Family Feels, Family Fluff, Fluff, Gen, Growing Up, Missing Scene, Parenthood, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-15
Updated: 2014-03-15
Packaged: 2018-01-15 20:14:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1317775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mayerwien/pseuds/mayerwien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Raising a child is not as difficult as they said it would be. However, in the seven years he has had Sherman, there are still moments when Mr. Peabody is caught unawares.</p>
            </blockquote>





	but i can't find the words i want

**Author's Note:**

> i don't believe the words you said  
> but i can't find the words i want  
> if you were gone in another life  
> i don't believe i would just survive
> 
> somebody found me here  
> somebody held my breath  
> somebody saved me from the world you left  
> oh i am lost and found
> 
> \- "Lost and Found," Katie Herzig

Mr. Peabody does not intend to operate under the illusion that he is Sherman’s _biological_ father, as many adoptive parents are wont to do. No, he will tell the boy straight out from the very beginning, avoid any possible future drama of the running-away-from-home variety. _Make no_ —and he winces inwardly at the unintended pun— _bones about it._

“Sherman,” Mr. Peabody says the next morning at the breakfast table, after sitting down in front of his eggs Florentine. “Now that the court has made its final decision and the paperwork has been settled, I should explain to you what it all meant.”

In his high chair, Sherman is meticulously moving dry cereal around on his tray. (Mr. Peabody has been experimenting with more cultured recipes suitable for infants, such as garnet potato puree with maple syrup, and mashed beets in red wine vinegar and pomegranate molasses, but so far Sherman has taken to none of them.) He picks one up and holds the little O shape to his eye, so close it knocks against his glasses lens. “Teal,” he pronounces.

“No, teal is a low-saturated form of blue-green, with the hexadecimal code 008080. That is a piece of cereal. The fact of the matter is, Sherman, I am not your real father. I adopted you—officially, four days ago.” Mr. Peabody pauses. “Can you say _‘adopted’_?”

Sherman blows a bubble. “Dop-dop.”

“Precisely. You see, Sherman, I am a dog, and you are a human. Dogs have fur, four legs, and tails—none of which, I might add, necessarily mean we are in any way uncivilized or unappealing. Humans, on the other hand, are pink, relatively hairless, and possessive of opposable thumbs.

“Dogs are parents to other dogs, and humans are parents to other humans. The reason why you are with me now is because your real parents—“ And suddenly, Mr. Peabody finds himself at a loss for words. This doesn’t happen often. As he closes his mouth and tries to formulate a proper sentence, the boy smacks his palm down on the tray, sending Cheerios exploding off it and onto the floor.

“I am a dog, and you are a human,” Mr. Peabody begins again, hopping down from his chair and bending down to pick up the scattered cereal. “However, that does not make me any less of a father to you. The reason why you are with me now is because you deserve to be well-taken care of, and I will do everything in my power to ensure that you will be.”

Giggling, Sherman reaches out and takes a hold of Mr. Peabody’s ear. “Pea-baba,” he says.

“Yes, Sherman.” Mr. Peabody grimaces and gently extracts his ear from Sherman’s sticky fists. Then to his surprise, Sherman says, more firmly and clearly this time, _“My_ Pea-baba.”

Mr. Peabody blinks. “Precisely,” he answers, and then clears his throat and turns his attention back to his eggs. “Now finish your breakfast. We have a lot on the agenda today—namely, Mozart’s Concerto No. 24 in C minor, and the first ten letters of the English alphabet. And if we have time perhaps some simple fractions and decimals before the break. Or should I say, before the _alge-_ braic?”

\--

Building the WABAC is a decision that—once Mr. Peabody has checked and quadruple-checked his calculations and found that there should be no lasting damage whatsoever to the space-time continuum—is fairly easy to make.

“A strong hands-on education is the key to lifelong knowledge, I always say,” he remarks, as he licks the tip of a pencil and prepares to go over the blueprints. Underneath his desk, Sherman is happily taking apart his model of the ununpentium atom. Mr. Peabody only peeks in briefly to check on the cooing baby before cracking his knuckles and getting to work.

It’s not just Sherman’s education he’s thinking of, he reflects as he scrawls a few numbers into the margins—or even the infinite wonders he will bear witness to as one of the world’s first time travelers. New York is a beautiful and vibrant city, certainly, full of opportunity—but it is chaotic, too, and fast-paced, and often too crowded. For every tree there are five skyscrapers, and frankly, he would rather Sherman grew up with space to breathe—safer, more spacious environments to learn and play in than this one.

He stops for a moment and allows himself to imagine it. Helping Sherman hunt for specimens in an unsullied deciduous forest. Taking him swimming in an ocean that has never seen an oil spill. Letting him run with whole herds of animals that now only exist as pictures in books and crude figurines in museums.

Lowering his pencil, Mr. Peabody glances up at the wall opposite. Hung there are framed photographs from UN conferences, newspaper articles detailing his contributions to the prevention of climate change, all four of his World Environment Day awards. He’s done what he can to make this world a better place. But even so, at present— _in_ the present—he can only do so much.

Mr. Peabody smooths out his finished sketch. There. Now to choose a color for the vehicle; something stylish. He’s always been partial to bright red. (He prefers to believe that fire hydrants have nothing to do with it.) Shading in the drawing, he holds it up to the light and is pleased.

“Well, I have the afternoon off today,” he says aloud. “That should be more than enough time. Of course, once the WABAC is finished, we’ll have _more_ than more than enough time.” He chuckles and tips his head downwards. “So, Sherman, where would you like to go first? Pre-colonial India? Medieval England? The Pleistocene epoch?”

“Go potty,” says Sherman, screwing up his face.

Sighing, Mr. Peabody rolls back his chair and holds out his paws. First things first.

\--

Sherman is four years old when Mr. Peabody logs in to check the comments section of his popular parenting blog, mrpeadaddy.com,and finds this question from a chrisdavid42 from Bloomington, Indiana _—‘Dear Mr. Peabody, My wife and I have a six-year-old daughter who is an only child. She has playmates and friends in kindergarten, but we think she might want someone to play with at home, too. At what age do you think it is appropriate for children to own a pet?’_

It’s enough to give him pause for thought, and he steeples his fingers as he considers the question. Would he allow Sherman to own a pet? He _is_ an only child, and old enough and energetic enough now to want a constant companion. Caring for it will certainly teach him many lessons in responsibility. He considers posing the question later at dinner.

Mr. Peabody realizes, then, that he isn’t quite prepared for the answer. He wouldn’t mind a turtle or a goldfish, but a hamster or a rat? One of those soppy-eyed, floppy-eared bunnies? Could he deign to tolerate a member of the feline species?

And then a thought occurs to him—what if Sherman wants a _dog?_

He is absolutely certain Sherman doesn’t see _him_ as a dog—not before seeing him as a father, anyway. There is no reason why Sherman should not ask for one. But still, the idea of having a fellow canine of far lesser intellect begging for food at the table and afternoon walks, rolling over for belly rubs, relieving itself on the Persian carpets—no, it’s more than he is capable of even thinking about at the moment. Slipping his glasses off, he rubs his eyes furiously. Maybe he should just forget about the whole thing.

...But it _would_ be unfair to deprive Sherman of such a typical childhood experience, he reasons. So at dinner that night, Mr. Peabody puts down his fork and says, “Sherman, I have something I want to ask you.”

“I didn’t do it,” Sherman squeaks.

“What didn't you do?"

“...Touch the Stradivarius?” ventures Sherman uncertainly.

Mr. Peabody turns a reproving eye on him. “We’ll discuss that later. Perhaps in conjunction with a little trip to eighteenth-century Cremona. Indeed, it would be _Cremonal_ not to. Ahem...” He coughs. “Um, well, Sherman, I was wondering if you would like to get a pet?”

Sherman’s eyes grow wide with wonder, and upon seeing it Mr. Peabody feels slightly faint. “Really, Mr. Peabody? You mean it?”

“Yes,” he manages weakly. “You’re a big boy now, and I think you’re old enough for one.”

“Any pet I want?”

“Er, how about you tell me what you have in mind, and I’ll—I’ll think about it. All right?”

Sherman sticks his thumb in his mouth and wrinkles his forehead in concentration, glasses sliding to the end of his nose as he frowns down at his carrots. Then he looks up, grinning widely at his own flash of inspiration.

Mr. Peabody holds his breath. _Here it comes, Peabody. Calm down—you can make this work, just talk it through with him rationally—_

“Could we get a plant?”

They get a four-foot-high rubber tree in a pot, taller than either of them, and name it Klaus. It soon grows to over eight feet, and most weekend afternoons from then on are spent in Klaus’ shade meditating, discussing the book of the week, or simply watching the sun set through the large glass window.

\--

One day when Sherman is at his play group, Mr. Peabody moves all the equipment out of the darkroom, has a window installed, and orders several cans of paint from the hardware store.

“Ta-daaa,” he sings later, uncovering Sherman’s eyes and beaming. “Your own room! Do you like it?”

“Mr. Peabody—I—”

“You’ll notice I’ve put in a loft and moved your easel and pottery wheel up there,” he says proudly. “So you can create your masterpieces undisturbed, like a true New York artist.”

“It’s—it’s—“

“I’m afraid the glass case I’ve designed to house your mineral collection will take a month or so to arrive, but in the meantime you are welcome to—”

The rest of his sentence is lost in an _ooph_ sound as Sherman barrels into him, arms locking tight around his middle.

But later that night, Mr. Peabody comes to tuck him in, and has just pulled the blanket up to his chin when Sherman grabs his paw and asks hurriedly, “Mr. Peabody? Can you leave the light on?”

“Now, Sherman. You know we must do our part to conserve energy. Besides, you will notice I have taken the liberty of painting a glow-in-the-dark map of the Northern hemisphere constellations on the ceiling. That should suffice to lull you to sleep.”

“But what if something comes out of the closet?”

“Such as?”

“A...monster?”

“Come now, I’m certain your imagination can be more specific than that,” Mr. Peabody says dryly. “Sherman, nothing is going to come out of your closet. Unless you have been conducting experiments with cultures in there which I am unaware of, in which case I can make no promises.”

“Okay,” says Sherman. He doesn’t sound very convinced, but he is evidently trying to be brave. “Good night, Mr. Peabody.

“Good night, Sherman.” Closing the door gently, Mr. Peabody pulls his dressing gown about him and heads down the hall to his own bedroom.

His luxurious four-poster is waiting for him. When he bought the bed initially, the salesman had raised an eyebrow at him and wondered aloud if Sir did not think the bed too large and too costly for a... _person_ such as himself. He had raised an eyebrow right back and replied coolly that he needed a lot of room to turn circles in, before waving his chequebook under the man’s nose to shut him up. _Not one of your better comebacks,_ he chides himself mentally, as he switches his bedside lamp on.

Now Mr. Peabody props two pillows up on the headboard, settles underneath the crisp linen sheets, and cracks open the sixth volume of Proust that he has been neglecting for so long. Turning the page, he gives a small sigh of contentment and begins to read.

It is near midnight when he hears the _thump,_ and mere seconds later when his door bursts open and he looks up to see a small, disheveled-looking figure in the doorway, breathing hard and squinting into the half-lit bedroom with a panicked expression.

“Sherman?” His hackles are instantly up. “What’s wrong? What—”

Without a word, Sherman leaps across the room as though the floor is a lava pit and hurls himself onto the bed. “CanIsleepinheretonightMisterPeabodyplease,” he gets out miserably. For a confused moment Mr. Peabody wonders why Sherman is not wearing his glasses—and then he realizes, with a pang, that he was too scared to even take the time to put them on before running in here.

Patting Sherman’s back awkwardly, he says, “All right, all right. But just for tonight. Get under the sheets.” He obeys, and Mr. Peabody pulls the coverlet higher up over both of them, drawing down a pillow and tucking it securely behind Sherman’s back—he’s been known to roll off the bed in the middle of the night. “Would you like me to read to you?”

“Yes, please.” Sherman closes his eyes and snuggles nearer.

“Very well.” Mr. Peabody clears his throat. _“Through art alone are we able to emerge from ourselves, to know what another person sees of a universe which is not the same as our own and of which—_ don’t touch me with your feet, Sherman, they’re cold— _and of which without art, the landscapes would remain as unknown to us as those that may exist on the moon...”_

And lying there with his son’s small shape curled into him, listening to his mouth-breathing steadily growing even, Mr. Peabody reflects that it _is_ rather a large bed for only one.


End file.
